


Black Secrets

by Amethyst97Skye



Series: Harry Potter One-Shots [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Family Secrets, Gen, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 15:56:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8851078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amethyst97Skye/pseuds/Amethyst97Skye
Summary: Sooner or later, the Blacks and Malfoys will go to war. Draco must pick a side before one is chosen for him





	1. Inquiring Minds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sooner or later, the Blacks and Malfoys will go to war. Draco must pick a side before one is chosen for him

It was customary for every Pureblood to learn the complicated history of their lineage, the vast majority of which had been drilled into Draco’s memory from a young age; not even Professor Binns’ droning lectures on Goblin rebellions could compare to the tedious monotony that, if Draco ever had trouble sleeping – which occurred far more frequently than he would ever willing admit – he would need to recite but a few lines before falling asleep seeing that he kept up appearance without leaving him completely incapacitated for eight hours every night.

T _hey could attack from anywhere, at any time, Draco. You must always be prepared._

That was why he brought his wand, holstered under his shirt sleeve, the pressure of the warm wood a balm against the inside of his right arm. He did not expect to encounter trouble, but his mother's paranoia demanded he come prepared. Draco was especially nervous because he had left the manor without her consent – it was both, at once, a terrifying and exhilarating feeling, breaking the rules – but what else was he supposed to do? Refuse the Minister for Magic over fear of losing his broom?

Draco could not read his parents’ take on the Minister one way or another, which meant they _still_ had not chosen whether to help or hinder, and they had had near three years to decide. As far as Draco was concerned, he would make his own opinion and, at present, he could not care less whether it was approved of or not. He was still angry - enraged, furious - at his father, and his mother had done little to garner his favour.

Three weeks ago, his second cousin - Sirius Black - escaped from Azkaban. No one had ever escaped from Azkaban. Not until now.

_You have nothing to fear, Draco. Black will be after that Potter girl, to finish what he started eleven years ago…_

Eleven years ago, Jasmine Potter defeated the Dark Lord, but aside from what he read in the papers – that Black was a mad man, who killed thirteen people with a single curse – he knew next to nothing, and his mother was keeping a curiously tight lip around him. Draco knew she had been relieved when he retired early, but he had an appointment to keep and, even if she did not approve of the Minister, she would have never forgiven him if he’d been late to tea.

When he replied to the invitation, a new owl brought him instructions and a solid silver ring, Goblin made, embossed with the Black family crest.

_Draco,_

_After you have read and memorised these instructions, burn this letter. At exactly 9:00 tomorrow evening, the silver ring enclosed will turn into a portkey and transport you to a small park directly opposite my address. When you arrive, focus on these words very carefully and my home will appear to you: **12 Grimmauld Place**._

_Until tomorrow,_

_Minister Black_

_P.S. I would advise you to enchant your cloak with a water-repellent charm before you depart._

Nerves had Draco putting on, and taking off, the ring repeatedly in intervals that stretched, from but a few minutes to several hours, from the moment it landed on his desk.

At half-past eight, with his mind made up, Draco sat and wrote a short letter to his mother, just in case she sought him out for conversation, or tried to bribe him out of his self-designated exile with the information she knew he so desperately craved. He rewrote it at eight-forty-five, and proceeded to burn the original.

When the hall clock chimed for the ninth time, something sharp hooked itself into Draco’s navel, tore him from his seat, and sent him spinning wildly through a vortex that threatened to crush him.


	2. 12 Grimmauld Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Times change, but families stay the same... or do they?

He landed, hard, on his back underneath a metal gazebo, similar to the one his mother had created in the garden, near to what Draco had recently learned was called a “playground”. There were two sets of open seated swings, a large roundabout, various slides and many more contraptions Draco had no name for. Some looked ridiculously childish, and others looked downright dangerous.

The air was thick with the tension of an approaching storm, and sheets of rain appeared to have been falling haphazardly for hours. Draco had cloaked himself, as advised, and he took a moment to appreciate how… oddly beautiful the little grove of Gothic houses was, what with the sun setting the sky ablaze in the west and the pearl-grey clouds hovering uncertainty overhead, reflecting the dying rays as if they were priceless stained-glass windows.

Draco soon took to the pavement, stepping around the puddles, and eyeing the dull-glinting numbers mounted on plaques beside the doors. When he passed Number 11, and then Number 13, Draco skidded to a halt; no matter how many times he looked, there was no Number 12, nor anything that would give one the assumption there had ever once been a house between the two.

I _s this some kind of joke? Where the hell is Number 12 Grimmauld Pl… ace._

Right before his eyes, a wall materialised out of absolutely nowhere, flowed by windows and a door. Taking several steps back, Draco marvelled as the entire house began to grow, expanding outwards, pushing houses 11 and 13 aside, but there was no noise, no movement and no indication that the Muggles had any knowledge something fantastical had happened. The plaque was the last piece to sink into place. Squaring his shoulders, and standing as tall as a twelve-year-old could, Draco walked up the steps between the arrow-headed fence railings and knocked. He waited.

It took a considerable amount of effort for Draco not to jump out of his skin when the door opened. He had not known what to expect, but a woman with towel-dried brown hair (Draco had been unfortunate enough to see his mother, before she had magically dried her own, and what she was forced to resort to when her wand refused to cooperate, but this woman was experienced in the art) wearing a long red dressing gown was not even close to his fantasies. Her eyes were dark, discernible bags lingering beneath their sockets, and Draco could not but think he had just woken a Muggle, preposterous as the thought was. 

“Can I help you?” she asked, perfectly calm and polite, her exhaustion non-existent.

“My... apologises. I was supposed to meet an… associate at this address.”

“Ah,” she smiled, a dark and beautiful thing that showed off far more teeth that Draco thought natural, but it suited her, somehow. “I see. And who are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.”

He accepted her extended hand, but before he could even think to kiss it, a vibration of… magic thrummed through her body, into his, and it was not until the door clicked shut that Draco realised he had been drawn inside an impossibly long corridor. It was lit periodically with old fashioned gas lamps, each alight with several individual blue flames that seemed to crowd against the glass for a better view of the visitors. Some even waved, and Draco found himself waving back, smiling and blushing when they giggled, like shy little girls.

With a wave of her hand, the woman levitated Draco's cloak and her own dressing gown – she was wearing plain wine-red robes beneath – towards a coat rack and gestured for the boy to follow.

“I apologise if I startled you, Mr Malfoy, but I had to confirm your identity before permitting you entrance. You’ll find the Minister in the first floor drawing room. I’ll bring some tea up shortly. Oh, and do be careful of the third step. It gets very temperamental when it’s stepped on.”


	3. Minister for Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What has become of the Black family? What will become of the Malfoy family? Which will Draco side with in the coming war?

Draco was left gaping after a red ghost at the foot of a grand ebony square-spiralling staircase, framed by two plum-coloured, velvet upholstered sofas, two matching armchairs, an impressive grandfather clock and a chest of shelves filled with books and bric-a-brac that served various purposes. Among them was an ugly, empty, four-armed iron candlestick; a bronze letter-opener with a sharp, forked tongue that darted out whenever it hissed-snored, but it was the silver veined quill that caught Draco’s attention. It had flittered out of a large pot, where it sat next to a gold, bronze and black quill of different varieties, and now hovered over a large green book that was floating in mid-air right in front of him.

Slowly, Draco took the quill and found it felt comfortably cool in his hand. The feathered tip of the quill gestured to the book, and Draco quickly comprehended that it was something a visitor’s log, specifically for Slytherins. Only after he signed in emerald ink did Draco realise who the last snake to visit the Minister was, but the book and quill floated off and away before he could prove his eyes were not simply betraying him. When he tried to open the cabinet, the handle requested he unhand her nose and keep his own out of other people’s business. Pale faced, Draco had complied.

“Well, what are you waiting for, dear?” the handle asked, her voice far more kindly. “You don’t want to keep the Minister waiting, do you? Oh, and watch out for the third step!” she warned.

Unwilling to have the entire house in uproar after him, Draco purposely stepped over it and mounted the stairs for the first floor. Several doors diverted off, but only one was open and, as much as he wanted to explore, Draco did not dare tempt fate and instead knocked against the one propped ajar.

“Enter,” came a voice, obviously female, and it made Draco think of Professor McGonagall.

“Minister Black…?” he asked.

Sat almost centrally was a woman of approximately thirty-five years. Her long straight hair appeared twisted by the way it had been streaked black and white, her face was pale but not unpleasantly so, and she wore flattering navy blue robes that were so obviously casual that Draco had half a mind to turn around, march out and snap at her for admitting him when she was not decent. The very thought turned his stomach in ways he did not know it could flip. After removing a pair of bronze-wire glasses, the lens of which had been shaped to match her slim almond eyes, she seemed far less intimidating, but the sharpness of her features still left him wary.

“Mr Malfoy,” she greeted, gesturing for him to take a seat.

The armchair Draco took turned from black leather to emerald green, the seams lined a deep mercury, and when he stood up it reverted back too black. Rather than laugh, the Minister sighed, almost nostalgically, and Draco took note of how her armchair was several shades a lighter blue than her robes, that the seams were the exact same colour of her wire-rimmed glasses, and that she seemed to be embraced by a blanket of fur rather than leather.

“I’m something of an inventor, you see. These chairs… I perfected the charm not long after I graduated Hogwarts. I was very much an academic, as I’m sure you can guess, and one must possess a great inner knowledge of both Transfiguration and Arithmancy otherwise there’s no telling what the chairs would turn into when you sat in them.”

Draco said nothing; even if he remembered how to work his jaw, he was not sure what to say in response to such an… odd statement. Draco was not the only wizard who thought the Minister a stern woman, and now his initial impression had been shattered he was at a loss on what to do next.

“But enough about me,” she continued, banishing both her glasses and a folder of paper-work to parts unknown.

This allowed her to turn and give Draco her full attention, but she did not stare or smirk, and it took him a moment to realise he wasn’t staring down a Slytherin. Such a thought should have provided comfort, but it didn’t; there was just something about her Draco couldn’t shake, and it was pulling him apart trying to identify it.

“I asked you here this evening to talk about you. Your family, specifically. Have you received any help?”

Draco blinked. “Help…?” What did he need help with? He was already receiving extra tutoring for Binns, and he wasn’t doing so poorly that Snape would write the Minister for Magic.

_He was the last one to visit her_ , reminded his inner Slytherin.

_I can’t be certain it was Snape_ , argued his inner Ravenclaw.

“Draco – Mr Malfoy… Can I call you Draco?” At his nod, the Minister smiled in such a sad way that Draco could see even his Potions Professor blinking back tears. “Then please call me Amee. Or Amabel, if you’d prefer to use my given name.”

_Father’s never going to believe I’m on a first-name-basis with the Minister for Magic!_

“To be blunt, I don’t care what your parents or teachers say. You suffered an incomprehensible trauma, Draco, and regardless of what you think, you do need help and there will always be someone to offer it.”

“I don’t want to, nor do I have to, talk about _that_.” In hindsight, Draco knew he should have expected something as underhanded as this, and it felt… wrong, to be cared for by a complete stranger.

“You were attacked and paralysed by a creature sworn to kill Muggleborns. We both know you’re not a Gryffindor.” They should not have, but Draco could not deny her words stung. “And we both know that if you don’t repair your mask now it will crack when you will have most need of it.”


End file.
